


The Space Between the Stars

by ivorytower



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, a warcraft reboot, prepare your feelings children, we're in for a bumpy ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorytower/pseuds/ivorytower
Summary: This is not meant to be a part of Unityverse, WoWverse, or really, anything but it’s own, similar and separate story. It is, in effect, a reboot, a retelling of the story of Warcraft without restrictions from genre or mechanics. The same concept, many of the same races, and largely the same story… mostly.It all starts a long time ago, on a world far, far away…





	1. Draenor: the Year of the Rift

**Author's Note:**

> **Gorgrond Continent, Draenor**   
>  _Summer, the Year of the Rift._

The night was dark and full of stars. The Blue Lady hung as a mere slit in the sky, her Red Son all but invisible next to her. Ner'zhul, elder shaman of the Shadowmoon clan, lifted his torch high, peering past the darkness to identify the landmarks he'd found on the scroll, hoping to navigate by them even in the gloom. He  wondered if, perhaps, he had imagined the whole thing.

Surely there was nothing to be found in the swampy marshlands but dancing lights and a painful, slow death via drowning. Shivering, he drew his cloak around his shoulders.

“What am I doing here?” he asked aloud.

Almost immediately, light formed near him, a figure dressed in the simplest of linen dresses, with worked embroidery around the collar and cuffs. They glowed white, though it was easy enough to imagine her skin being the softest green of spring grass, that her hair, iron grey and long, was bound up behind her as she worked with the sick and the injured, an occupation that had, eventually, cost her her life, along with two of their dozen children.

“Ner’zhul,” the figure called, and he could not look from her, though he knew, in a distant part of his mind, that her manifestation could have been a trick, machinations by the marshlands to lead him towards death.

“Rulkan,” he whispered. “My mate.”

“Follow,” she said, and pointed one arm, muscled even in age and death, deeper into the swamplands.

“I go,” he repeated. “I go for you.”

The manifestation did not reply, merely kept pointing. Taking a breath, Ner’zhul continued to walk, slopping through the water as insects settled on his skin and his dark robes soaked through. He had lost track of time as the stars wheeled above and the Blue Lady made her way, almost entirely veiled in shadow, across the sky.

His torch was guttering by the time he found it, found what the scroll had hinted at and Rulkan had guided him towards. He fell to his knees, dropping the last of his light. It didn’t matter, because there was light enough from what he found:

There was a glowing, green light in the heart of the swamp. Almost the size of an orc, it hung in the air, just above the water.

It had no name, but in the future, it would simply be called _the Rift._

~ * ~

The northern reaches of Gorgrond were not as cold as everyone believed. It was easy, perhaps, for the Warsong to mock the Frostwolves for their snow and blustering winds when they lived on the rolling, open plains of Nagrand, so close to Oshu’gun that they had become used to, even jaded by, the presence of the Spirit Mountain.

Here, so far north in Frostfire Ridge, summer had come, bringing with it warmth and change. The snow had melted from most places, filling the streams and rivers that led south, towards the Zangarmarsh and then, in turn, filtering into Nagrand. Time and distance would warmed those waters, but they were still cold in the north.

Across the land, small flowers in red, white, and purple dotted the landscape, feeding the great northern talbuk that wandered the land, their massive horned heads lowered on necks that were made of pure, undisguised muscle.

As he watched the talbuk move, as it browsed, he held his spear tightly in one hand. It was a good time. This one had wandered away from the greater herd, and he could hear them nearby, calling to one another softly.

He was downwind, all effort put into being silent, being still, being unseen.

Seemingly satisfied with its meal, the talbuk made to move on.

 _Now,_ he thought, and rose, throwing his spear in the same motion, muscles extending in his chest and his arm with a sharp exhalation.

The talbuk had no time to leap away, though the rest of the herd fled. It thrashed once, and died, collapsing onto the ground, blood splashing across the flowers. He smiled, and hurried, before the  always-hungry rylaks that flew overhead got to his quarry.

Behind him bounded his companion, a great wolf whose fur was as pale as moonlight snow, with grey speckling its paws and belly. He grinned and took dried meat from his pouch, offering it to the wolf.

“We did a good job, eh, Shadow?” he asked his companion aloud, and petted the wolf’s ruff. Shadow barked sharply. “Now, let’s get this back to Wol’var.”

Garad worked quickly, dragging the corpse onto a heavy tarp, then wrapped the tarp around it, tying it off tightly. This would allow him to avoid a blood trail that would attract unwanted predators. Shadow helped drag the body onto a stretcher, made of wood and leather, fastened in place by sinew and rope. Once set he lifted one side, and began the process of dragging it back towards his home.

Garad, leader of Wol’var Village, had hunted well this day.

~ * ~

“Will you be going to Oshu’gun this year?” Garad asked Geyah, his mate. The woman looked up at him, frowning as she worked, the curve of her tusks making the gesture dire. “They asked after you, last year.”

“I was needed here,” she reminded him. “Durotan had not yet been fully weaned and he was too small to travel. This year, we will go together, the whole of the family. It will be that time again soon.”

“It will be at the dark of the moons,” Garad noted. “Some say it’s an omen. Do the spirits speak of anything to you?”

Geyah considered, even as her hands worked. The talbuk needed to be butchered quickly, the hide removed and stretched out to be tanned. The tendons had been taken aside, and Garad was working on them now, one eye on his youngest, experimenting with rolling and crawling on the blue and white blanket that Geyah had spent a season weaving for their first child, Ga’nar, and had kept for their next child, and others after that.

Ga’nar was four summers old, and already got into more trouble than he didn’t.

Around them, the other members of the village -- no more than a handful of families sharing living space -- were working with the talbuk’s meat, cooking, smoking, and packing raw meat into tightly woven linen packets to press against stones as cold as Frostfire’s winters to keep it safe.

“The ancestors spoke of an important announcement,” she said finally. “I have communed with a few of the Frostfire shamans, and we have all heard them speak of it. They will be no more specific than that.”

“Then obviously, we must travel well,” Garad said, and leaned in to nuzzle at her neck. Immediately, the troubled expression faded, replaced by half-lidded pleasure. “It’s a journey of many weeks, through the mountains. It will be Durotan’s first trip. Isn’t that right?” he called out to his son, who offered him a grin full of half-grown teeth.

“Perhaps not _entirely_ his first,” Geyah noted, and Garad chuckled. “I hope the ancestors will speak to me of him.”

“We will see, but I hope so as well,” Garad said. He lapsed into silence, working diligently until Durotan, feeling brave, wandered from his blanket, tumbled, and began to wail.

~ * ~

 _Your eyes belong to the spirits,_ they had told him. _They took them and granted you sight beyond sight, the ability to perceive the ancestors and even the elemental spirits, raw and ravenous. Do not mourn what you have lost, but rejoice in what you have gained._

Sometimes, Drek’thar wondered if what he had gained was worthwhile. If being able to _see_ the hot springs, as well as smell, and occasionally taste the bitter tang of mineral salts would be as magnificent and humbling a sight as those around him claimed.

While many remembered what the ‘frost’ part of Frostfire was -- the depthless winters with bone-freezing cold that caught the unwary when they were out in their snow huts while hunting, instead of safe in the fur and leather lined dwellings that sheltered them -- it was the ‘fire’ portion that was sometimes forgotten.

It was here that Incineratus, the Elemental Fury of Fire, dwelled, in a chain of mountains that had not erupted in many centuries, but nonetheless made their heat and their majesty known. Lava pockets melted all the way down, past the permafrost, and exposed the land should any be brave enough to dare it.

The sulfurous air that came from it in waves was more dangerous than the heat, which was why the orcs did _not_ live near the lava pockets, but instead, by the hot springs.

Frostwall was the home to the farmers, and the shamans. It was too cold to farm anywhere else. Even in the summer, when the flowers dotted the ground, the land was too hard to dig deep, and there was no preserving anything but the hardiest root vegetables for further seasons. Around the lava vents, the land and air stank too much and despite seeming inviting, it was deadly. The hot springs provided the heat necessary to soften the soil, without the danger of fumes.

Were it not for the fact that the relief from the cold the springs provided was limited, perhaps there would have been more people living there, instead of just the small number of individuals who tended the land for trade.

The springs themselves were a commodity: they provided strong salts that eased sore limbs and muscles, and in the smallest and safest ones, people could immerse themselves for an hour, though they needed to be provided with water, melted from the ice and then warmed to avoid shock. The shamans frequented them often, letting heat and steam open their minds to the will of the ancestors.

Drek’thar was not old enough to go into the springs, and his task was identifying Mother Kashur’s herb collection by smell, touch, and occasionally taste, with Wise-Ear’s help.

“She cannot see the colours as an orc would,” Kashur reminded him. “So she will be no help there, but she can help hone your sense of smell further. Be patient, my student, and be wise.”

Drek’thar’s parents had brought him to Frostwall as a child, seeking wisdom from the greatest and wisest shaman in Frostfire, hoping to learn how to better raise their blind child, and Kashur had persuaded them to leave him here so that he could learn the ways of the shaman.

Twice a year, they returned to Frostwall, to exclaim over how he had grown and hear of his progress. Last year, they had brought him his newest sister to touch, and he’d felt her forehead wrinkle in distress as she cried, unused to the pervasive warmth and damp.

 _I expect great things of you,_ his father had said. _Great things indeed._

“Great things,” Drek’thar muttered, “are easier to expect than they are to have happen.”

He leaned forward, rubbing his fingers against the leaves gently. He didn’t want to crush them, only to transfer scent to fingers, and then bring his fingers -- he would never know what colour they were, though he had been told they were bright green, as all the Frostwolves were -- to his nose to scent them properly.

 _Fireweed, good for making tea, heat-resistant,_ Drek’thar recalled. _Gresht, for chewing, grows nearly everywhere on Draenor, brought here to grow near the hot springs by Thunderlord traders. Dreamleaf, meant to invoke--_

It floated above a land Drek’thar had never been to. He could _see_ it, and smell it, the wet and damp filling his lungs, colder than that of the hot springs. He could taste the rain in the air, and _see_ clouds overhead, the spirits bringing him knowledge that his mind did not have. He could hear the sound of droning insects and wind through unfamiliar, massive trees with roots exposed.

_The Rift._

It was glowing, white with hints of green and black mixed into it. It was a sight of promise. It was a threat. It represented exploration and change - change that, once brought about, could never truly be undone.

 _It is calling,_ whispered the spirits. _Azeroth is calling. Will you answer?_

Drek’thar cried out, and felt himself falling into darkness as the vision faded from him and he thudded on the ground. All was dark again, and he felt, rather than saw, Wise-Ear hurry to him and lick his face and neck, whining softly.

“Get… get the Greatmother,” he managed. “I need her. I had--”

“A vision,” his teacher concluded, and he felt her presence behind him, and she gathered his head into her lap. “Tell me what you saw, in your own time.”

~ * ~

Kelkar had, for a time, believed that he would never cry again. That, in the coldest depths of winter, they had frozen his eyes, leaving him dry, empty, and deeply scarred in a way that made him wish desperately for the kiss of an axe or a spear.

That was, of course, before the babe had come.

The red pox struck swiftly when it came. He had come across it by accident, like a fool, like a harbinger of bad luck. He had went to visit his sister Lutra’s family in the south, a breath warmer than his Wol’tar Village along the far western coast of Frostfire Ridge, where the sea was frozen over enough to walk on, though to travel across the sea meant death.

When he had arrived at the village, there was silence. There had been no voices to greet him, no joyful barking to signal his presence. Just a deathly quiet that should have been his hint that something was desperately, terribly wrong, but he had failed to understand its importance, instead hurrying inside the village to look for the others.

He’d found the first body outside, laying on the snow, preserved by cold had it not been for the way it had been torn apart, chewed on, and discarded. It was his sister’s mate, Kolgak, and he had been dead so long that his green skin had blackened, whether through blood or cold, it was hard to say.

He had assumed an attack, an ambush of some kind. He had gone into each hut and found nothing. There was food, not rotting from the heat, but stale, rigid and cold, and it had been untouched. Weapons were left where they were usually kept, no clothing was missing, no jewelry, carefully traded for in warmer seasons.

It was in the final hut that he found the answer that had been calling out to him all along: a body, this one just as stiff and dead as the one outside, with only its -- her, Lutra herself -- head visible above a thick swath of blankets, still and dark in death.

He had unwrapped the blankets without thinking about it, weeping silently. It was not totally uncommon to lose people on the ice -- friends, family, beloved ones -- but like this..?

It was when he saw her, wasted, bloated, blotchy in places, that he realized what an utter fool he’d been. Lutra had died from _disease._

He’d fled then, fled back across the ice, back to his mate -- heavily pregnant -- and to his clan. He had told her of what he’d seen, and he’d burned his clothes, precious as they were, precious as _fire_ was, and then gone back to burn the village, the bodies, all that he could.

It hadn’t helped. The sickness was in him, then, and he had started to cough and wheeze within days. It passed swiftly to the others that remained, though some fled, perhaps in hopes of being spared, or like rodents fleeing a burning building. Zuura, who had seemed so strong, so resilient through all of this, had sickened too, bringing about her quickening.

Bringing about the _babe,_ the first child they had wanted so very badly. She was early by a few weeks at most, but small and sick. Zuura, who barely had the strength left in her lungs to breathe, had feared she would die.

Kelkar, who had brought death into his home, knew that it would be his fault, retribution from the spirits for being such a simple-minded fool.

He had lived through the pox. Lived to suffer, lived to mourn. Lived to drag those who had died off onto the ice, into the ocean, so the wolves wouldn’t eat them and sicken as well. Lived to hunt, turning good meat into soft mash to feed to his mate while she writhed in agony, in fever and illness. Lived to coax Zuura into nursing their daughter, who was small and cried constantly, but yet lived.

Their village was cursed, now. Those who left would tell others, warn them of the sickness and death that plagued them. They were dead, ghosts inhabiting bodies of meat and blood.

Kelkar’s hands shook as he picked up the knife. He stared at it, turning it over and over in his hand, staring at the length of metal, traded to him by Thunderlord, who traded in turn with the Blackrock, distant in Gorgrond’s mountains, kept warm by salt pools and forges that worked day and night, skilled with their hammers and anvils and sharpening stones.

 _There is only one thing I can do,_ Kelkar thought dully, and lifted the knife. He brought it to his face and cut a slit along one cheek. It stung and bled, but he did not feel it. He cut again, across it, twice. He had only heard of such a mark, never seen it in person.

 _Outcast_ was the meaning of the scar that would be seen by others. _Unclean. Pariah._

He didn’t bother to wipe the blood clear. Not when he would need to do it again. He could feel it dripping down his cheek, like the tears he could not cry, and it stuck in his beard, freezing there.

“Zuura,” he whispered hoarsely. She barely heard him. She was only coherent some days. He walked to her and knelt by the furs. He had put the babe there to nurse, and the little one did what she could. Slowly, he made the same cut on his mate’s face, and pressed cloth into it until the linen stained dark. He looked at his daughter. “Now… now it’s your turn.”

As time passed, as the moment stretched, he realized that he simply couldn’t do it. He couldn’t condemn his child, not before she even had a name.

Slowly, the tears that he thought he was incapable of shedding came again, burning along the cut, and melting the blood to flow freely once more.

Confused, afraid, and very tired, the child began to wail.

~ * ~

“Stay back!” bellowed Aranas, and Telkar did, keeping his back -- and the bundle of his sleeping son -- clear. Telkar was young, only newly mated, and this was his first journey across the Blade’s Edge Mountains. Aranas was older, having been one of the younger mates of one of the greatest Thunderlord warriors before he had perished in battle.

Telkar had always been honoured that she had chosen him, and never as much as he was at this very moment.

Aranas’ stance widened, and her grip tightened on her great maul. It was a crude thing by most standards, a hunk of jagged metal, the spikes prominent and often wet with blood, while the handle was wrapped in leather that was so old, so tightly secured, that it seemed as though it had always been a part of it.

She was the Doomhammer, and before her stood a gronn. It was huge, as large as the hills, one-eyed and angry. It swung at her with one massive hand and she swayed, and if the thick furs and leathers she wore bothered her, she did not show it one bit.

 _I need to help her,_ Telkar thought, gripping at his spear. _I must help her._ The moment he started forward, she turned her head, bellowing at him, her long, coarse black hair hanging in her eyes.

“Protect our son!” she snarled, and the gronn swung again. She evaded again, but only barely. “He needs you more than I do!”

Telkar nodded, and kept his place, though his grip on the spear did not loosen. Aranas was a warrior, as true and pure as any could be. Telkar was a hunter, and a good one. He knew this. He knew how to stalk the rylak and evade the wolf. He knew how to climb mountains and raid nests for the eggs of wildrocs and avoid their angry beaks and claws.

Aranas, on the other hand, knew what it truly meant to fight. She did not dirty her weapons with the brains and blood of animals. She stood in defense of her clan, of her family and her mate, when others came to threaten them. She practiced, day in and day out, and it was for that purpose she was fed, clothed, lauded with honours.

 _I just wish I didn’t feel so helpless,_ Telkar thought, watching as she traded blows with the gronn, crushing a knuckle joint, turning with a swipe to avoid breaking a rib. It was like music, the low drums of war, or art, the splash of vivid colours against drab pieces of wood or hide. It was a wonder and he felt lucky to watch.

Luck, however, had a way of running out.

As Aranas skipped to the side from a blow, she came up against the cliffside and swore. A miscalculation. Dangerous. Telkar’s heart moved into his throat as she was forced to stand her ground, to absorb blow after blow. She remained standing, but one of the strikes caused her to cough up black blood, spattering the ground.

The gronn scented it. The gronn grinned.

It bellowed at her, ready to crush the life from her. She let the Doomhammer fall and leapt to meet it, scrambling up over its back.

“Telkar, your spear!” she cried, and he took two steps forward, hurling it towards her. She caught it, reversed it, and stabbed in into the gronn’s neck.

It died, but it took its time about it. The gronn shook and bellowed, trying to dislodge her and, eventually, succeeded, finding the strength in death it had failed to possess in life. It flung Aranas from its back towards the cliff wall and she struck it hard, bounced once, and fell still.

“...Aranas?” Telkar asked, forcing himself to sound calm. His son, Orgrim, little Orgrim, the son of the strongest warrior he knew, was wailing. _Aranas will know… know how to comfort him._ He hurried to her side, kneeling down, turning her over.

Blood dripped from her mouth, from her wounds. A blow had taken one of her eyes, and it seemed dead, while the other focused on him. She gripped at his hand weakly. “Telkar, you… you must go,” she rasped between pained breaths. “They will smell the blood. They will come here. You need to take Orgrim to the next village. To the Blackrock. They will have better weapons than your little spear.”

“But--”

“Don’t--” She spasmed with a cough that sprayed more fluid, and it spattered against Telkar’s skin. “--argue. Take our son away from here. Save him. When he is old enough, if he… if he walks the path, give him the hammer. Tell him that it brings doom to those who face it.”

“And… those who wield it,” Telkar said, touching her cheek lightly. She nodded once and then, took a breath. It shuddered through her, and she never released it. Not in life, at any rate.

Telkar closed his eyes as they began to burn with tears, with grief, with anger and ineffable sadness. _I must be away,_ he thought, and considered his options. He knew of the Blackrock, that they loved warriors and smiths. He had little talent with metalworking, and only barely more with a weapon, but of the two, he knew which would be easier to fake.

He crossed Aranas’ arms over her chest, and rose slowly, moving to the dead gronn. He gripped at the spear, pulling at it. Once free, he drove it back in, using a poor, unsuitable tool for the job of sawing its head off, but it worked, in time.

Orgrim had settled down, and was more alert than afraid, scenting the blood and wondering if it was from an animal, perhaps, meaning that food was coming soon.

The gronn’s head was heavy, like a good-sized stone, and Telkar weighed it in one hand. With the other, he took up the Doomhammer. He held it awkwardly, and did his best to remember how Aranas did it. The spear he would leave behind, along with his beloved mate.

“My name is Telkar Doomhammer,” he said aloud, wanting to see how they tasted. It was of salt, of loss, and of blood. “I slew a gronn along the path but my mate was killed. I bring you proof of it. I am a warrior in need of shelter and care for my son.”

He looked up at the fading sunlight, and could see the rylaks coming. Coming to feed, coming to rip and tear the flesh of his beloved. The gronn would likely not be far behind.

Heavy hearted, he began to walk, hoping he would arrive soon enough to find food for his son. He began to walk, keeping against the cliff wall, like a hunter. Like a man with something to lose.

“My name… is Telkar Doomhammer, and I am a warrior...”

~ * ~

By the time he reached the first Blackrock settlement, in the shadow of the mountain, Telkar feared his son would not survive. Orgrim had wept with hunger when he had awoken, and there was little Telkar could do to help him. He had soaked a rag in water and given it to his son to suckle, but that had only alleviated his distress for a short time.

There was only so much water in the skin, and only so many times he would accept it.

It was near dark, and the world was full of shadows and doubt. Every dark crevice held a gronn, and every shadow that passed over the fading sunlight was a rylak. The Doomhammer felt heavy in his grip, forced as he was to hold it instead of slinging it onto his back, where he carried his son, and he hadn’t thought to take any kind of sling or harness for it.

His palms felt damp with fear, with worry, and his own stomach cramped on emptiness.

At first, when he’d seen the shapes in the darkness, he had believed them to be other predators, things that he feared most, but it was not so. Monsters became buildings, and threats became people, though they were hard to see without torchlight.

“Well, what has the rylak dragged in?” boomed a voice, and Telkar started. It was hearty and deep, but familiar enough to recognize it as an orc voice. A second figure, bearing light, brought both of them into view: one was a man, thick-armed and broad-shouldered. His head was shaved clean, and his face was pockmarked with burns. He was bared to the waist, and wore only battered leather trousers, streaked with grey -- ash, or perhaps soot. The second figure was a woman, her head level with his shoulder, and her eyes seemed to gleam red before settling on brown. She too had muscled arms, bulging under the rolled up sleeves of her tunic, and she had scars criss-crossing the length of them, as though she had fought many battles with razored leaves. The pair of them had grey-green skin, smoky almost, as though enough time and exposure had changed them.

“Don’t be shy,” the woman said. “Who are you, where did you come from?”

Her tone was light, but Telkar watched the way her body shifted, though he wasn’t close enough to smell her intent. He gripped the Doomhammer and spoke the words he had practiced since the attack.

“My name is Telkar Doomhammer. I slew a gronn along the path but my mate was killed. I bring you proof of it. I am a warrior in need of shelter and care for my son.” He brought his other hand forward, and showed them the stinking gronn head.

The woman laughed, her voice an oddly shrieking sound, and Telkar fought the urge to duck as if by reflex. “And you dragged that dirty thing all the way here? It will make a fine mask, surely.”

“Don’t tease him, Saksha,” the man said, though he sounded amused. “I am Urzkal Blackhand, chieftain of the Blackrock Clan. You have the look of a Thunderlord about you, though you have wandered far from the northern lands. Did you become lost on the Blade’s Edge?”

“No,” Telkar said, unable to relax. “We were traveling, my mate and I. I had to leave her in the mountains.”

“A sky-death isn’t so bad,” Saksha observed, gesturing with the torch. The torchlight gave her face an oddly elongated look, like peering into the sockets of a skull. “Though I am sorry for your loss. You said you have a son?”

“Orgrim, yes,” Telkar said, and allowed himself to sound eager. “He has not eaten properly for some time, if there is something--”

“The twins are well past the age for milk, but something can be done,” Saksha said. “And you won’t want milk from the jungle.”

Telkar didn’t know what to say, and merely nodded. Urzkal looked him over once, grunted, and jerked his head. “This way, come. Don’t mind my mate, she is of the Laughing Skull. We all know that they are crazed.”

“Just as we know that the Blackrock are fools, half-blind from forge smoke,” Saksha said, but there was warmth in her tone, fondness, just as there was a teasing air to her mate’s, as if this was a joke between the two of them, though both things were rumoured to be true.

Long ago, a huge clan held the land from the base of the shadow of the Blade’s Edge mountain range to the jungles of the southern portion of Gorgrond, until the trees faded before the might of the Zangari River. There had been a schism of some kind, both sides disagreeing about the specifics, and one clan had become two, the Blackrock clan, named after the ore they mined, forged, and shaped, and the Laughing Skull clan, named after their propensity for wearing the skulls of their enemies, or sometimes, their friends and ancestors.

Saksha’s face was bare, and Telkar wondered if she was an exile, though before he could think on it further, Orgrim began to wail anew, his cries weaker than Telkar had recalled.

“This way,” Saksha said. “Come. I will teach you how to flense the skull properly and you can keep it.”

Telkar nodded, uncertain and hoping he didn’t show it. He didn’t dare release his grip on neither hammer nor head, so while Saksha took his elbow, he watched Urzkal step behind him and lift Orgrim from his sling, and draw even with Telkar once more.

“A fine voice on this one,” Urzkal said, rocking him gently, and offered large, blunt, scarred fingers to the boy. Orgrim immediately began to suckle, and his smooth, bright green features wrinkled with distress. “Hush now, small warrior. We’ll get you fed up very soon.”

“Thank you,” Telkar said. “Thank the spirits for leading me to you.”

Urzkal grunted a little. “Think little of it. Let us show you the village.”

The village was not like those he was used to: the Thunderlord lived in vast hunter-holdings, with large homes meant for a hunter and his mates, as well as their children. The Frostwolves, from what he’d seen during a handful of visits related to trade,  lived in tiny family groupings, with perhaps twenty or thirty people in all.

The huts in this place were round, and made of stone rather than wood or hide, with leather hangings covering doors and windows. They were lined up along a road with room between them, and there were a handful of larger buildings, one of which had the smell and look of a forge.

“This is a mining outpost,” Saksha said at his elbow. “All those who live here work in the mines, or what comes from them. This is not our village, we are visiting. The Chieftain likes to check in on operations, and make sure they’re running smoothly, deal with problems, and such. Crack a few skulls if necessary. That’s why he is called the Black Hand.”

Telkar, uncertain as to whether or not she was joking, merely nodded.

“We don’t have much in the way of milking animals here,” Urzkal said. “Raising animals is for the clans of Nagrand and Terokkar, but there was a birth here. It will be enough until you can join us at the primary compound.”

“Compound?” Telkar repeated as Urzkal went from hut to hut, calling out. “What does he mean?”

“This is an outpost, as we said,” Saksha explained. “The road from here leads towards the largest of the mountains.” She pointed. “The Knife’s Point, you see. There, where it has been hollowed out and there is no more metal to be had, we live within, in a hive of caves. It gives us access to Draenor’s fire, that we might smelt the metal and turn it into fine things, like armour, weapons, and tools. Some even turn them into more delicate things, like chains and jewelry. Urzkal is the finest of the smiths, and forges many wonders. That’s why he is called the Black Hand.”

Telkar nodded again. “The Blackrock are known for it, the clans speak of it during gatherings. The chains we used to bring down rylaks and hunt the great talbuk of the tundra first came from Blackrock forges.”

Saksha nodded once, and gestured to Urzkal, who had found the woman he was looking for, and had begun a spirited negotiation on Orgrim’s behalf. Telkar felt a little overwhelmed, and was grateful for Saksha’s grip on his arm.

 _If they are taking such control of things, then perhaps I have been believed, and will not be thrown out. I should ask…_ “So, your mate is a smith only? Did they accept a leader who isn’t a warrior?”

Saksha laughed a little. “Many of our smiths are also warriors, and all warriors learn at least a little of the craft here. You will need to learn too, just as all the Laughing Skull warriors learn to work bone and leather. Urzkal can crush a skull with one hand and create a fine sword with the other. That’s why they call him the Black Hand.”

“That is… not so among the Thunderlord, but I would be willing to learn,” Telkar said. “Very willing. I wish to stay here, and repay you for your kindness.”

Saksha bumped him with her hip. “Keep that in mind. You will be taught and become one of us. It is dangerous in the mountains, you will need to fight goren and gronn both, and protect our shipments when we go trading.” She did not drop her voice, but leaned in, conspiratorially. “Then, if you are particularly good, Urzkal might take you to the furs and pleasure you as he did me, when I was too fat with the twins to mate. Such fingers he has! That’s why they call him--”

“Saksha,” Urzkal said, as Telkar flushed with embarrassment. “Please.”

Saksha cackled, and her laughter caused the stars to shake in the sky.

~ * ~

The season of Oshu’gun was beginning. Slowly, over the next week or two, the clans would send representatives to the plains of Nagrand, the first home of the orcs. The Spirit Mountain overshadowed all of them, the ancestors watching and waiting.

Drakatha, Chieftain of the Warsong clan, was watching too. She was not the oldest of the chieftains - that honor fell to Ner'zhul - but neither was she a young thing, like Garad and Urzkal. _At their age, I was so unsure of myself, always seeking advice from my great-grandfather, and now I’m a grandmother myself. Where does the time go?_ The weather had been good in Nagrand for some time, and as she stood on the ridge, watching the guests come for another celebration, sunlight glinted from the muscles of her thick, brown arms, exposing a vast network of tattoos and scars.

While the young of her clan would go bare-chested, men and women alike, that time for her was over, and instead she chose to wear a sleeveless tunic over lightly woven trousers, with Gorehowl strapped to her back, secured as she had once secured Nemaz, her son, or Zuura, her daughter, though both were long since grown. Nemaz had a son, and little Grommash was as active as any child of the clan, while Zuura had found her love in the far north, and Drakatha hoped to see her grandchild this season, or perhaps the next, depending on whether or not they could travel.

 _If the elements do not rise against us, it will be a good time,_ Drakatha thought, and focused on the banners. She could see the Blackrock in force, heavily laden with worked metal and goods, with a few faces she didn’t recognize, their hues varying enough that they could have been of other clans, or the product of extra-clan marriages, the way Zuura’s children would be.

She grinned fiercely. The clans were not static things, not rigid and fixed. Like the Warsong themselves, they shifted and moved over time, bringing new music, new notes, new instruments. While many such matings were peaceful things, others were fraught with drama, with bloodshed and violence. Such things were not always pleasurable to live through, but they made _excellent_ stories, ones that would be worth telling in front of a fire. She happened to collect them.

After the Blackrock streamed the Laughing Skull, and as she observed, raucous laughter broke out amongst them. The found something very funny, it seemed, and they let all of Draenor know it. They too brought trade with them, worked bone and hide, bounty from the jungle and the botani, the elementals that dwelled there that were half of earth and half of water, being that they were animated trees and plants. Drakatha found the things fascinating, and interesting to kill during her visits to their jungles.

The White Sands were coming next, orcs that dwelled by the banks of the Zangari river, their clothing concealing and protective, even in the heat of Nagrand’s summer. Many of them were paler than average orcs, their brown the light tan of tree wood rather than the hearty brown of the Warsong, and more than a few had Draenei blood in them, owing to their cooperation and frequent contact with the other race. The White Sands were often as reclusive as the Draenei as well, and some found them to be more than a little foolish with their obsession with rivers and boats.

The Shadowmoon came next, somber in their black woven cloth, huge family groupings with swarms of children trying not to be impatient with their march. Drakatha found the Shadowmoon to be a curious clan, though not a truly bizarre one. Shadowmoon families had a mated pair, and usually no less than six children, some of them coming in twos and threes, more frequently than any other clan. Ner’zhul and Rulkan, may the ancestors keep her, had had a dozen children before sickness had taken Rulkan and two of her little ones. Such family sizes would have killed the Warsong or the Frostwolves, both of whom relied on smaller family groupings to survive, but in the fertile lands of the Valley, large families were needed to work the fields, gathering vast swathes of vegetables, grains, roots, and flax to weave their cloth. The Shadowmoon were even said to raise animals, rather than hunt them, leaving them more time to pursue writing, crafting, and their study of the stars.

Drakatha didn’t want to _say_ their lives sounded boring and bloodless, but she felt it, just a little. Preparing for another march across the plains still got her blood up in a way that even mating with Rargol didn’t quite match. Still, their auguries were often excellent, more precise than any save those cast at the foot of Oshu’gun, so she didn’t like to speak against them.

Another banner caught her eye and she could not help but open her black-tattooed jaw in surprise: the Earthen Maw were here. They were a strange breed; brown with a hint of yellow, or more rarely blue, to their skin, the Earthen Maw were the clan located the most closely to the coast on the far side of Nagrand, nestled in the hills past Warsong territory. They were bigger and bulkier than most orcs, and were often seen with a train of animals, frequently rocs or boars, tamed to hand as though they were the most docile of worg pups. Their size and resilience made them dangerous enemies, should they choose to march on their neighbours.

Drakatha knew that well enough, she had slain three of them in a bloody conflict that had seen a dozen of her warriors killed, a horrific loss.  It was small wonder they were so fierce, because the Earthen Maw were not _full_ orcs, instead bearing strong strains of ogre blood. They called themselves Mok’Nathal, when they chose to call themselves something at all, and they straddled the line between the clans and the forces of the ogres, who had frequently been enemies of the orcs, hampered only by the fact they had to sail across Draenor’s stormy, dangerous seas to get anything more than a toe hold in orc land.

As they walked, one of the young ones looked up at Drakatha and waved. She waved back, grinning. The adult walking with them cuffed the child’s ears, and from the look on his face, barked at the child to pay attention. _A parent, then, or a teacher. They are so rarely seen, and even less often do they bring their children with them. This will be an interesting season indeed._

The Whirlwind clan came next, bringing with them the sound of rain: their ceremonial garb was decorated with shells, bone, and rare glass. They lived by the southern beaches, and took in bounty from the sea, including different types of fish and seafood that could not be found in rivers, streams, or lakes. They had learned, thanks to the often-unstable elements and a freak storm, how to use heat to turn sand into glass, and while it was too fragile for most to make use of, it could be shaped into beads, or other things. Some had claimed that the right curve could sharpen vision, which Drakatha found to be miraculous, though perhaps not practical without some way to hold the glass, like a hilt holding a blade.

The Bleeding Hollow followed behind, and like the Blackrock, they too were laden down by goods for trade. Rather than worked metal or rare ore, the orcs native to the Tanaan jungle -- only barely more friendly and welcoming than the jungle where the Laughing Skull lived -- brought herbs and potions, and Drakatha felt herself lean forward just a little. The Bleeding Hollow were good friends to the Warsong, bringing special herbs that enhanced the experience of storytelling to new heights, even if they left one with a fierce headache afterwards, or blood that ran so hot one had to fight or fuck to work through it -- sometimes both, not _all_ her scars were born from battle, after all.

On and on they came, from sunrise to sunset, banners waving, her vigil interrupted twice by Rargol bringing her meat, bread, and fierce kisses to sustain her. The moons were bright in the sky when the last of them came, both from the cold north, a place she thought would freeze her blood solid: the Frostwolves and the Thunderlord, the former accompanied by their white-furred companions, and the latter wearing the masks that protected their eyes from sun glare on the blinding snow.

Once they found their way to Oshu’gun’s camping grounds, Drakatha rose, stretched her stiff limbs, and made her way down the ridge. The gathering was complete, now the celebration could begin.

~ * ~

Ner’zhul could feel his hands shake from the raw, awesome power of the Spirit Mountain, and hoped that he had interpreted the signs correctly. _Rulkan was always better at reading the stars than I. I fear that my life has been incomplete without hers._

It was, perhaps, not an entirely worthy thought: they had had many good years together, years of prosperity, of fecundity. Each child had brought the dedication of a new field, a new garden, and their lands in the Valley were vast. Their children, those that had survived, worked hard, and every year, the careful process of preserving vegetables for lean months or trade displayed their wealth.

Still, he could not help but feel that his discovery in the marsh was an ill omen, despite the fact that Rulkan herself had guided him. He took a breath, and focused. He was a chieftain, after all, a respected elder of the clans, not a foolish child to hesitate, fear, and wonder.

“Grandfather,” said his grandson. “Does something trouble you?”

“No, Gul’dan,” Ner’zhul said. “But I would like it if you walked with me a time. We can leave the pitching of tents to others.”

“Of course.” The boy was young, on the cusp of adulthood, and already he seemed bright with stars. Like all of his clan, Gul’dan’s skin was soft green, like spring grass, and his arm was steady as Ner’zhul took it. The sun seemed very bright in Nagrand compared to the shadowed depths of the Valley’s forests, all the better to see the stars and moons at night. Gul’dan, like his grandfather, wore dark robes, black picked out with white for the stars he had been born under, with bands around the cuffs and belt to indicate the phase of the moons.

“I have spoken to your grandmother,” Ner’zhul began, and Gul’dan nodded in understanding. “She brought me visions and I followed them. She appeared to me, as some are said to have seen Greatmother Omri from the first days of the clan. She directed me to a place in the depths of the marshes. There was something there, a… a light. Something unlike any swamp light or insect I have ever seen.”

“Grandmother was very wise,” Gul’dan said. “She must know something that we do not, in her infinite wisdom as a spirit.”

Ner’zhul smiled sadly, thinking of the times when Rulkan had mixed up two very different dried herbs, and ruined a meal quite thoroughly. He thought of how she had died. “Yes, she is very wise. She said that the light leads to a different place, a new world.” At Gul’dan’s blank look, he added, “a new world is like visiting another continent, with an entirely different sky and stars. I saw it in my vision. Similar and yet different. We are called there.”

“That seems… incredible,” Gul’dan said, stunned, though he was careful not to trip on the uneven ground. “What will you do? Will we visit this new world? Will Grandmother come with us?”

“I intend to speak of it to the other chieftains,” Ner’zhul said, taking a breath, letting his greying hair flutter in the wind of it. “I wish to ask them to join us. We have few warriors among the Shadowmoon, but much to trade, much prosperity to offer those who might come with us. On the other side, there could be… anything. We don’t know, we can’t know. Perhaps this destiny is only for us. The stars have been unclear on such matters. I hope that the other shamans will offer insights.”

“I hope so too, I…” Gul’dan looked away. “My own studies have been poor. I’m sorry.”

“Do not be ashamed, Grandson,” Ner’zhul said, and reached out, tilting the boy’s chin back towards him. “It is not everyone’s destiny to speak to the spirits or study the stars. Perhaps… have the elements spoken to you? I wish to know, even if it’s dangerous.”

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Nothing. I study and I meditate, but nothing comes but my own thoughts.”

“It is no matter, there is much you can do with your knowledge,” Ner’zhul said lightly, though he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Shamanism was rare, true, and it took years of study to learn to hear the spirits. It was even rarer outside the Draenei to find those who could commune with the elementals of Draenor. Rulkan had been a shaman, though, a star-augur of the finest calibre. Ner’zhul had fallen in love with her because of the stars in her eyes and the shine of moonlight on her skin. He had hoped that their children, and their grandchildren, would bear strong gifts.

Perhaps not. Perhaps that was not what the spirits wished. It would not due to put pressure on his grandson for the sake of the dead.

“I will learn your arts, Grandfather,” Gul’dan promised. “I will learn them even if I must study for a thousand years.”

~ * ~

The Summer celebration was two weeks long, and one full of merriment. The first days were filled with laughter, songs, and dance, as each of the orc clans tried to outdo one another. The usually somber Shadowmoon were incredible, with fully coordinated and choreographed dances while the Warsong and Screaming Cliffs clans drummed, sang, and chanted. The next few were about competition, where warriors performed vast, elaborate shows of combat prowess. Often unarmed, frequently naked or dressed only in loincloths and slick and shining with oil, combattants grappled with one another for all to see.

At least half the time, winner and loser alike were tugged inside tents and the sounds of their pleasure were muffled by other celebrations elsewhere.

Finally, once their blood had been warmed, trading began, with bundles of furs from the north being traded for precious herbs from the south, while root vegetables, grains, and cloth were traded for meat, shells, and thick bones. Sometimes live animals, like birds or boars were exchanged, and there was the scent of blood and leather in the air. Members of different clans could meet, discuss, consult, and even flirt with one another, and many matings were confirmed in Oshu’gun’s shadow, and twice as many children were conceived.

The final days of the celebration of Oshu’gun were for the shamans. There were shamans in every clan, of every age and gender. They had little in common at times, sometimes even  their accents so different they required other shamans to interpret during their heated debates. Even their methods differed, from the Shadowmoon Clan’s star reading to the study of steaming entrails performed by the Laughing Skull to the time spent in the hotsprings by the Frostwolf clan shamans, a feat replicated by the Blackrock in their own salt-pools.

When the shamans gathered, guarded though not interrupted by the warriors of their clans, it was a time of discussion. Ner’zhul looked them all over, and he could see the incredible differences, and yet whole similarities between his fellow shamans, and it warmed the places in his heart that had gone cold. Rulkan was not here by his side, but his clan had other shamans -- though not Gul’dan, to the sadness he was doing his best not to show to his grandson -- and there were many from the other clans: Kashur and her student Drek’thar, Geyah and perhaps one day one of her sons, Firallah of the Blackrock, Jo’gel of the White Sands, Leoroxx of the Earthen Maw, and many others. They sat in a circle, as close together as they could around a great, roaring fire, at the base of the mountain.

“Friends,” Ner’zhul began. “Fellow shamans. I have much to speak of this night, in the dark of the moons. In the past season, I have had a vision, sent to me by my lost Rulkan, may the ancestors share their wisdom with her for a thousand years. Through her vision, and her own manifestation, I was led to the depths of the Shadowed Marshes and beheld something I had never seen before.”

“The Rift,” Drek’thar said, and Ner’zhul turned his gaze to the boy, his brow wrinkling with a frown. “I Saw it, I had a vision. My first.” He spread his hands, bright green in the torchlight, his leather robes hanging over his skinny shoulders. “We are called there. It speaks of--”

“Change,” Firallah said, taking up the tale. “Change awaits us there, something new and different, but incredibly important. We will forge ourselves anew.”

“There were trees, different from the jungle,” added Kilrogg, his singular eye catching the light, and his mate Karis nodded, holding their son in her lap. “They were tall, tall as mountains, with roots exposed. There was a word, I _understood_ it, but I did not _know_ it.”

“Mangroves,” added Jo’gel. “They exist on other parts of Draenor, where the Draenei have their holdings. I saw a swamp, but not the swamps of Draenor. Something different, and new.”

“We are meant to go there,” Ner’zhul said as the shamans murmured, but his heart lightened. “You have seen the vision too? All of you?”

“It came to me after Drek’thar spoke of it,” Kashur said, and Geyah nodded along. “I consulted with the other Frostwolf shamans before I came here, and the Thunderlord. It’s why we came so late. I saw as you did, but I heard a name, a place. It was, it was difficult to speak from our lips, but I will try.”

“I can do it, Sister,” Geyah said, and screwed up her face. “Az’roth. It was called Az’roth, the land of change.”

“Az’roth,” the shamans repeated amongst themselves, the word seeming to echo as they tasted it on their lips, like meat juices, like blood. “Az’roth.”

“We must go there,” Ner’zhul said, feeling the name echo through him. “We must send a scouting force, but… we need warriors to aid us. We will need to make sacrifices, asking some of our greatest and strongest to go through the Rift. Passage through it may not succeed at first, like making a journey along a narrow mountain pass, or during the great rains.”

“Or snows,” Geyah reminded him tartly. “Some of us live with _real_ weather.” Veshak, the Thunderlord shaman, chuckled, his voice deep. “I will go. My mate and I will go through. Our village knows of the vision, and that was why we brought them here. We will go after the first scouts return.”

Ner’zhul blinked slowly, and his eyes felt wet with emotion. “Your bravery will be spoken of a thousand times, Sister. Thank you.”

“You will not go alone,” Veshak promised. “We will have to consult with the Iron Wolf, decide which young pups to send along, and which families might be spared.”

“It will take at least the rest of the season to organize everything,” pointed out Karis. “To prepare supplies in case there is no hunting on the other side. We will have to speak of this vision to the Chieftains as well, and they may have their own thoughts on the matter.”

“With so many of us speaking as one, they must listen,” Firallah said. “And Urzkal is well pleased, he has made a new friend of late, and his mate may bring joy to the clan again soon.”

“The next order of business, of course,” Ner’zhul said. “Let us speak of births and deaths, of joy and of sorrow, so that the ancestors may be kept apprised of the affairs of the living.”

The shamans spoke long into the night, drinking sweet water, sharing the news of the past year. There was laughter, sorrow, and anticipation as each one had new stories to tell, and old ones to remind the others. As Ner’zhul watched Drek’thar, the youngest of them at only ten summers old, slowly fall asleep, leaning against Kashur’s shoulder, and her arm came around him, he couldn’t help but wonder what Az’roth would be like.

 _I hope that it is as peaceful as our gatherings here,_ he mused. _I hope the people of Az’roth are kind._

 


	2. Azeroth: Year 593 After Founding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we smash-cut to the humans ending a civil war in the traditional way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Stormwind, Azeroth**   
>  _High Summer, 583 AF_

**** The scent of smoke and ash was so thick that Adamant Wrynn thought he would choke on it. He swayed -- half to dodge the incoming blow, half because he felt light-headed from the blood loss -- and swung back, his sword flashing in the sunlight. It was High Summer, the peak of the season, and the day had started at dawn with the final assault.

There had been fighting in the streets of Stormwind, slug matches fought in the narrow spaces between buildings. It had been dirty at times -- knives flashing in the long shadows as the sun had risen -- and it had been overwhelming, with warhorses kicking down poorly armoured defenders in the streets, spilling blood over the flagstones.

This, however, had to be fought the way people imagined a war was prosecuted: face to face, while seconds and thirds in command watched, waited, and held their breath.

His opponent was a big man, swathed in dark plate. He favoured a morning star, huge and jagged, and he’d already dealt more than one blow to Adamant, crushing metal and cracking ribs. Only skill had prevented the crack from becoming a break, and only endurance and long practice in the dueling ring would prevent victory from becoming a loss.

“Surrender,” Adamant hissed out as he struck at his opponent. “Spare your house. Put an end to this madness.”

Warren Baewyn, the King of Elwynn, Westfall, Duskwood, Redridge, and the Sorrowlands, laughed at him, big teeth flashing. His dark eyes flashed, and his skin, the same shade as dark wood, or perhaps new iron, was streaked with blood and soot.

“The same madness that calls for civil war?” he demanded. “The same madness that calls for assassination?”

“False rumours,” Adamant lied. The incident in question was expertly handled, and the cause of death was more speculation than fact. He knew the assassin personally, and she was an expert at such things, the best of her kind. “Words from a tyrant, a madman.”

“Rumours,” said the man who had put who villages to the torch. “Lies.”

“The Light will sort things out,” Adamant promised. “Then you’ll twist on the rope, alone and unloved.”

“I thought that milksop philosophy was all about peace and serenity,” Warren mocked. “Or was that something they teach to convince others to let their guard down. Is Faol a genius conman, or just a coward and a fool?”

Anger rushed through Adamant in a wave. Alonsus Faol was a good friend. He had left the church of his birth after a number of serious disagreements with the local clergy, and had gone on a pilgrimage across Azeroth. Alonsus had returned, bringing with him a philosophy born of seeing the suffering of the people, the endless conflicts between Azerothians and the beast people -- gnolls and kobolds, mostly -- who shared their lands. Alonsus had denounced the church that declared humans to be greater than non-humans, taking a brave stand, and for that, men like the Demon-King called him a coward.

Fury and righteous indignation gave him strength, and Adamant lunged forward, ducking the blow coming for him, pushing himself hard. With a cry, he put all his weight into the stab that cut through a gap in Warren’s plate, hurting him badly. The Demon-King stumbled backwards, bleeding freely.

“Surrender,” Adamant said. “Cede the throne. End the madness.”

“You’re going to have to get your hands dirty,” Warren mocked. “If you’ve the strength for it.”

Adamant straightened, though it hurt, and called out. “People of Stormwind! Warren Baewyn, the Demon-King, has fallen. I, Adamant Wrynn, scion of my house, now lead Azeroth. If you value your lives and your honour, you’ll throw down your arms and surrender.”

“It’s true,” called a voice, and Adamant turned, walking a little as he sought out the voice. “You really have gone soft.”

“And yet your former king lies bleeding at my feet!” Adamant cried. “There is no need for this. We do what we do for Azeroth, for Stormwind, and for the people. If you simply  _ think  _ about it, you’ll find--”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He made to turn back, but Warren Baewyn had staggered to his feet, rushing at Adamant with a feral cry, blood on his teeth and hate in his eyes. He had not made it across the arena before an arrow struck him in the eye, dropping him.

“You could stand to be more careful,” called a woman from the rooftop. She had a crossbow sitting across her lap, casually, like a maiden might hold a bouquet of flowers on her wedding day. She, not unlike the fallen king, had dark brown skin, though hers was a shade lighter, like a finely polished violin, and her eyes were a startling blue. Her hair was a cap of tight curls against her scalp, bobbing a little as she nodded to him.. “Watch your back.”

“Thank you, my love,” Adamant said to the woman. “I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”

His wife, Varia Wrynn, grinned down at him. “Suffer, mostly.”

~ * ~

“You’re a damned idiot,” said the young woman for the third time in as many minutes. Adamant grunted as Alonsus prodded his ribs gently, testing for fragments. “You’re lucky Varia was there to save your rump.”

“Thank you, Pathonia,” the new King of Stormwind said wearily. “You’ve said that. Several times.”

“And I’m going to  _ keep  _ saying it until you work it through your thick skull.” Pathonia Shaw was younger than he was -- just barely nineteen, and he, twenty-five -- but she had always had a cynical air, and her habit of lecturing him about his own foolishness was as endearing as it was grating. “You should have had me with you and not with the priest.”

“The priest was most grateful for your company,” Alonsus said. “The healing will be discomforting, be prepared.”

“It can’t hurt any more than Path’s sharp tongue,” Adamant noted, and braced. Alonsus pressed his fingers into Adamant’s side, and he grunted as his friend’s hands began to glow softly. Under his skin, he felt the soft, prickling sensation of his ribs knitting back together again, the slow process of healing happening rapidly, in seconds rather than weeks. He let out the breath he had been holding. “Thank you.”

“I expect you not to get into too much trouble until they finish healing,” Alonsus said sternly. “Not that I  _ entirely  _ approve of you starting wars in the first place.”

_ “He  _ started the war, old friend,” Adamant said. “I just finished it. Was there any trouble at the Abbey?”

“None that I noticed,” Alonsus said, and walked to one of the basins. He poured water into it from an ewer and washed his hands briskly. Adamant studied the other man -- slender, and on the short side, with blond hair thinning quite early, approaching invisibility against his pale skin -- as he continued. “Don’t think I’ve failed to notice that my name was invoked during your duel.”

“He called you a coward.”

“I don’t care.”

“He’s a fool, and a dead one,” Adamant spat. “Because you aren’t.”

“And, should you, while distracted by him insulting me, have fallen, the war that has cost this kingdom so much would have been futile, and the dead fool in this case would have been  _ you.”  _ Alonsus frowned at him direly, and now, Adamant had the grace to look embarrassed.

“You’re right, of course,” he said, and held out his hands. “Forgive me.”

Alonsus made a soft noise, fond and exasperated at once. “There’s no need to look so hang-dog about it.” He crossed the room to the new king and took his hands. He leaned forward, touching their foreheads together briefly. “As little as I approve of war, I approve of the death of innocents even less.”

“I don’t know if he would have stopped any other way, but he  _ will  _ stop now,” Adamant said, solemn. “We’ll wash Azeroth clean of the stink of blood for another seven generations.”

“I can only hope,” Alonsus said, and released Adamant. “There’s still a great deal left to do.”

“What are we doing with House Baewyn?” Pathonia asked, glancing at Alonsus, and back to Adamant. “Not every one of them is going to just surrender quietly.”

“Not every one of them is a warrior capable of defending themselves on the battlefield,” Alonsus noted. “And you have prisoners, don’t you?”

“We do,” Adamant sighed. “We’ll keep them comfortable, confine them to their estates while we clean up the mess.”

“Hold that thought,” said a voice, and Adamant looked up, smiling broadly. Darius Fordragon was quite capable of filling a doorway with his size -- over six and a half feet in boots -- and the room with his deep, rumbling tone. As it stood, the sight of him, wearing a mix of chain and leather, dusty from the road, a perpetual squint to his gaze owing to a life spent in the saddle, filled Adamant’s heart as well.

Darius crossed the room swiftly, and swept Adamant up in his arms, kissing him firmly. The kiss held for some time before Alonsus politely cleared his throat.

Darius broke the kiss, and rested his forehead against Adamant’s, and this intimacy lingered as he murmured, “What’s this about you turning your back on your opponent?”

Adamant laughed a little. “Varia filled you in, did she?”

“Varia did, husband mine,” the new Queen said, stepping around Darius. “We’ve news you might not like. Whilst you were recovering, Baewyn forces broke our prisoners out of jail.”

Adamant heaved a sigh and drew away from Darius. “So what’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is, they went back home, locked the doors and windows, and set the house aflame,” Darius said grimly. “Nielas did his best, but the whole thing was like a tinder box.”

Revulsion filled every line of Adamant’s body, and it showed on his face. “The madness wasn’t just one generation deep.”

“No, it seems not,” Varia said, spreading her hands. “But it casts a pall. A final curse from the Demon-King and his family.”

“I don’t believe in curses,” Adamant said, tone firming. “Is Nielas alright? What about the children?”

“Back at his residence in the city,” Darius said, tilting his head towards the door. “The children seem to be doing well enough, though I’m just as glad we accounted for all of them  _ before  _ all of this started. I don’t trust that the Baewyns -- Devil rot their souls -- wouldn’t have taken them just to prove a point.”

Alonsus cleared his throat again, and Darius ignored him.

“I want to see them,” Adamant said. “Then we finish cleaning up the damned mess and properly take the Keep as ours. After that, we start things over, better, with an eye to real peace.”

“You’re going to have to contend with the noble houses,” Pathonia reminded him with a frown, stroking her fingers gently over one sleeve. From experience, Adamant knew that’s where she kept her knives. “The ones smilin’ at you are the same ones that smiled at Warren Baewyn, an’ the same ones that’ll smile at your funeral.”

“They can smile all they want, Path,” Adamant said, and rose with determination from the table. “So long as they follow.”

~ * ~

Stormwind’s streets were busy, largely because of the clean up effort. Bodies didn’t disappear by themselves, and that meant those who usually worked the docks at the harbour were, instead of hauling crates, lifting the dead into wagons, covering them in waxed tarps, and hauling them away.

The house that Adamant and his friends had sheltered in was located near one of the busier streets, and as he stepped out of it, he watched one such wagon pass.  A woman led the horse along the cobbled streets as the wagon bounced and jolted along the cobbled stone streets, leaving a trail of blood and shit in its wake.

_ Such is the price of victory,  _ Adamant thought grimly as his friends formed up around him.  _ Though the price of defeat is far, far worse. _

Adamant kept Alonsus on his arm, and Darius was on Alonsus’ other side. As a civilian, and a man of peace, should someone come for them at this stage, they would need to protect him from harm. Traditionally, a monarch’s consort would be in such a position, but Varia preferred to be at Adamant’s back, with her hands free to shoot anything that moved.

Adamant loved his wife of three years more than words could properly express, and thanked the Light every day that it had seen fit to draw him to her eye.

Pathonia disappeared into the shadows three steps out of the house, but Adamant knew she would be nearby, watching his back and protecting him from sorrow. One day he hoped to tell his grandchildren, and hers, how they’d met and the tumultuous adventure they’d had.

For now, he led the party through the streets, dodging past the steady stream of people who traveled Stormwind’s crowded, dirty streets.

If he looked into the distance, he thought he could see the waft of smoke coming from the ruins of the Baewyn family estate, where they would have retreated after losing their grip on the city. Adamant tried not to shudder.

For their part, the people of Stormwind barely recognized Adamant without his family’s coat-of-arms, for all the Wrynns were also one of the noble families. A dozen or more houses claimed noble blood as the direct descendants of the first of those who came on the  _ Storm’s Wind  _ in the early days, nearly six centuries earlier.

_ Pirates. Ruffians. Exiles. Mavericks. _

The descriptors brought a certain smile to Adamant’s face. Human history had always been a contentious thing. From the earliest days of the tribes and their tangle with the elves and trolls, to the more recent era of Lordaeron’s conquest and expansion, humans resisted being united with one another as strongly as they resisted being conquered by others. Any such effort always caused division amongst a people, from those resisting being subjected to those profiting from confusion and discord.

Azeroth was the home of such people, where they dripped down from Lordaeron, Kul Tiras, and Stromgarde after having their fill of their nonsense. When Dalaran became too restrictive and the Kirin Tor exiled a mage, they went south. Compared to the other human nations, Azeroth was relatively young, full of spite and danger.

_ There are criminals, and then there are criminals,  _ Adamant thought fondly. His own ancestors had been part of a mercenary arm for an old Arathi warlord, eager to shake the Trollbanes loose from their comfortable throne. They had lost, of course, and fled south along dangerous mountain passes and across rushing rivers, and wound up joining the crew of the  _ Storm’s Wind  _ as bruisers and enforcers for coin.

Six hundred years later, they were kings.

_ Well, one king, for now,  _ Adamant reminded himself.  _ There’s no such thing as a Menethil or a Sunstrider line here. _

Lordaeron had had its fair share of shake ups, but the Menethil family had risen to prominence five hundred years previous, the divine right of kings enforced by the churches dotted throughout the kingdom and with the mailed fists of the Brotherhood of the Sword, the nation’s primary knightly order. Azeroth was less fond of such formality, but some had taken to referring to the riders, enforcers, and mercenaries of Azeroth as the Brotherhood of the Horse.

Darius had ambitions to turn it into a real organization, and Adamant had whispered his luck against his lover and best friend’s skin more than once. He’d need it.

There were few truly unbroken lines of kings in the human lands; something would happen, an assassination, a mad queen torn down by her oppressed people, and people were grateful when a line lasted more than three generations, which was when such systems tended to break down.

It was different with the elves. Reclusive in their forest-kingdom, the Sunstriders had ruled for six thousand years, one monarch replacing the next with a routine clockwork that felt as though it was planned, rather than the often-tumultuous passing of crowns that humans experienced.

Not a human alive had witnessed an elf’s reign from beginning to end, which was a little bit disconcerting when one had to deal with them.

There were elves living in Azeroth too, and they even had their own noble house, though it rarely did more than meddle in politics. They played a long game, more often than not.

Azeroth had mages too, the descendants of those exiled by Dalaran’s ruling council. Those that survived to have children and apprentices, and teach the ways of the magi to Azerothian citizens were revered and remembered in the Golden Spire, where new generations were taught.

The Kirin Tor, for their part, sneered at the teachings of the Azerothians, finding them to be haphazard and ineffectual in the face of the organized force of mages that were directly descended from the elf-taught Hundred, but Adamant tended to disagree.

He’d seen Nielas Aran blow the side of a hill clear off, after all.

Nielas was another close friend, a mage who had studied at the spire, and was promised the seat of Court Conjurer when the dust settled from the war. The seat had previously been occupied by a shadowed figure that rarely showed their face, and Adamant wasn’t sure who, or even what, that figure might have been.

_ Hopefully, we can get to Nielas’ house soon,  _ Adamant thought, and resisted the urge to press his hand into his side. It wouldn’t help with the pain stitching itself across his healing ribs, no matter how much he might believe otherwise.

“We should have gotten a cart,” Darius murmured. “Adamant’s hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he protested. “Really.”

“We’ll see about that,” Alonsus said crisply. “For now, a little pain might not do you any harm if it reminds you of your duties.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the  _ nice  _ one,” Varia joked, her gaze on the rooftops. “We’re nearly there, just look for the purple.”

“I’ve never quite understood mages and their fondness for purple,” Alonsus admitted. “What’s wrong with a nice blue?”

“Nothing,” Adamant assured him. “I’m sure if you ask, Nielas will be happy to tell you.”

“I’m sure he would,” Alonsus said. “But then I would actually know the answer, which might be worse.”

Darius, Varia, and a nearby shadow sniggered as one, and Adamant smirked. He caught sight of a flash of purple and pointed. “That way.”

The mages tended to congregate on the western side of the city, nestled between the Harbour District and the Merchants, so that they had ready access to the supplies they would need for their various endeavours, as well as the privacy to conduct them safely. Some had said that the mages were watchful for their kin from the north, or monsters that might come from the sea or sky.

Others, of course, claimed that they were pushed off to the far edges of the city so that if they managed to blow themselves up, it would contain the damage, but this didn’t seem to track with their proximity to Azeroth’s life’s blood of trade and commerce.

Nielas’ apartments were small, part of a large, blocky building that had been divided into sections long ago, making each narrow but quite tall. Often, in the past, the bottom floor would be used for a private herbalist’s shop or to sell used books, but Nielas had devoted the whole of his residence to his family and friends.  It was compact, as homes went, but better than a cottage in the middle of nowhere, or cheaper than a private residence in the heart of the city, and it gave the impression of giving one a height advantage over the sights and smells of the city with its single front-facing window.

It made Adamant think of a tower, with less of a view.

Darius marched up to the door first, knocking on it twice, pausing, then three times more. At Adamant’s back, Varia was watching the street on either side, though if  _ this  _ were to be an assassin’s point of opportunity, it would be difficult to root them out.

Adamant tensed.  _ There are no rules after a royal coup other than surviving it. Betrayal from one’s allies is just as likely to take your head off as it is to come from a faction that backed the old monarch. At least, I have little to fear from that… _

The door opened, and a tall, slender man looked out, and smiled a little, his expression strained. “Ah, we meet again, Sir Darius. Thank you for your assistance earlier.”

“You’re welcome, Conjurer,” Darius said gruffly. “We should move this inside.”

“Ah, of course.” Nielas backed up, moving carefully in his carpet slippers. Darius stepped inside first, and gestured Adamant in after him. One by one, with a breeze bringing up the rear, they filed into Nielas’ small, narrow apartment.

The wizard himself was not an imposing presence, more willowy than large, and he wore pale grey robes with little adornment, save a golden tower insignia resting over his heart. His hair was shoulder length and dark brown, though it was already beginning to run to grey.

It seemed every time Adamant sent him out to perform another magic miracle, he got a little greyer.

“Hello, Nielas,” Adamant said, moving carefully to embrace him. Nielas hugged him back, patting his back with a fluttering of his hands that made him wonder if he was checking to see if the new monarch of Stormwind was in one piece. “I’m fine.”

“I just like to make sure,” Nielas said. “He’s fine, by the way. I think he slept through most of it.”

“Good to hear, but I’ll be happier to see him,” Adamant replied. “May I..?”

“Of course, this way,” Nielas said, gesturing. “He’s in the nursery. It’s quietest there. Medivh! I’m afraid you’re going to have to surrender your companions for now.”

In the sitting room, there was a rush of movement as a pair of boys, no older than six, hurtled towards Darius, clinging to him as they hugged him frantically.

The knight smiled, and kneeled, wrapping his arms around them tightly. “Hello, boys. Papa’s back.”

Both boys started asking questions at once, eager and excited, about the battle. Adamant stepped around them, smiling fondly, and nodded to a third boy, a year younger, who was watching shyly from near one of the great chairs.

“Hello,” Adamant called out softly. “Thank you for watching over him for me.”

Medivh Aran peered up at Adamant, his brown eyes wide and expressive, and nodded once. “Do you… do you want to see him?” he asked, uncertain. “He’s sleeping. So’s Lady Fordragon.”

“I would, and I promise not to wake them,” Adamant said. “I just want to see him. Would you show me the way?”

Medivh nodded again, and Adamant held out his hand. The boy took it, and led Adamant through the apartment, his footsteps whisper-soft in slippers, rather than Adamant’s somewhat noisier boots, navigating the dark portions of the halls with the ease of long practice, even as a child.

The furthest room from the entrance was the nursery, though it was surely going to become a proper bedroom sooner rather than later. Adamant could see familiar shapes, the shapes of a bed and a crib, as well as a cot, meant for a tired parent to rest on after a late night rather than the proper bedroom, which was attached to the nursery via a curtain rather than a door.

The cot was empty, which likely meant Nielas had surrendered his own bed to Lady Katya Fordragon, heavily pregnant last Adamant had known, to sleep and taken the cot for himself.

Medivh tugged Adamant towards the crib, and slowly, as though scraping his memory for the correct incantations, summoned a small mage-light in his other hand, allowing Adamant to look down on his infant son.

“Hello, Llane,” Adamant said softly, smiling fondly. “Papa’s home.”

His son, despite the portentousness of this announcement, did not wake, or even stir. Adamant admired his features instead -- he was a few shades lighter brown than even his mother, owing to Adamant’s paler skin, but would have the brightest blue eyes when they were open, expressive and intelligent in a way he was certain only  _ his  _ son could be, and his hair was a dark fuzz, close to his skin.

He was barely a month old, and already, he was a Crown Prince.

_ It was worth it for him,  _ Adamant thought.  _ The battle with Warren, the months of preparation, all of the planning… it means that my son will never know war as I did when I was a lad. It means that all of the children his age -- or the twins’ age, or Medivh’s age -- will know peace. They’ll know times of prosperity and contentment. For our children, and our children’s children, until we’ve built a legacy we can be proud of. The Wrynn legacy. _

As he mused, Llane jerked briefly, and farted for so long that he woke himself up and began to cry.

“We’ll work on it,” Adamant promised him, lifting his son up and into his arms to rock him, and seek out his Llane’s mother for a meal.

~ * ~

The coronation was a week later, when the smoke and blood had been cleared, and the streets thronged with Azerothian citizens. Most would not be able to attend, since it was held inside Stormwind’s Keep rather than in a public space, but heralds and word of mouth would spread the news far and wide.

Within the throne room, the old legacy had been stripped away as best they could, tearing down the banners of House Baewyn and burning them in a conflagration that was as much purgative as it was a simple changing of the colours.

The Wrynn legacy would be different. It  _ had  _ to be.

Adamant had chosen blue and gold as his new colours, somewhat more pretentious than the green and grey of the old Wrynn heraldry, but he had wanted to make an impression, to make a stand. Bold colours, royal colours, would help his family stand out on the international stage against the silver and white of Lordaeron and the grey and bronze of Gilneas, the two largest land-bound nations.

They were different, too, from Kul Tiras’ teal and gold, so pirates and allies alike would be able to tell their ships apart on the high seas.

The lion, however, was true to the old medals and flags that they had carried from the Arathi Highlands to Azeroth’s shores, and featured prominently on the new flag. The face of a male lion, mouth open as though caught in mid roar, symbolizing the fierceness of the new house, as well as the promise to care for family and friends, a warning to enemies and a comfort to allies.

Adamant had spent hours staring at it the night before, until Varia had told him that she would have Pathonia smother him into unconsciousness so he didn’t faint from lack of sleep during the coronation.

Adamant had not yet taken the throne, though he had tested the new cushions and found them to be comfortable  _ enough  _ for his purposes. He’d heard rumours of both hideously uncomfortable thrones used by Lordamere and Arathi monarchs due to a belief that rulers should never be comfortable in their seat of power, and the decadent bed-thrones of the elves, who were so comfortable in their rulership that they saw no reason to deny themselves.

Of the two, Adamant found the former more ridiculous.  _ The Menethils and the Trollbanes are more than comfortable. No one has challenged them in an age, and they have legacies that spread like spiderwebs. They don't know what it's like to be constantly torn apart by civil war. If they did, maybe they’d see the value of a decent seat. _

The new seat was a construction of wood and gold, padded with the new royal blue and patterned with the new lion insignia. The old throne had been a hideous thing of red and black, the Baewyn colours, ugly and twisted like the old king’s heart.

_ A new seat of power for a new ruler’s intent. _

There were other seats for other offices of note: the place of honour for the highlord, to his right, and the monarch’s consorts to his left. Sword arm and shield arm. On a raised dais, with a bench and table, was the seat of the court conjurer, that they might use their magical might to defend their ruler. Nielas had pronounced the dais perfectly serviceable, and pointed it out to his son, the usually shy boy looking even more subdued than usual.

Pathonia’s place would never be in the throne room, and she had accepted that readily. Assassins and spies rarely had a place in the public eye. To flaunt one tended to be a sign of tyranny. Instead, she had befriended a young and upcoming architect by the name of Conrad VanCleef to help find secret passages that would allow her to travel swiftly and silently between rooms and spy on guests.

Conrad himself had been nervous around the young woman and uncertain in the face of her cheerful irreverence, but had been helpful nonetheless.

The appointment of a state religion was new, and one that Adamant expected to produce the most resistance. The old church tended to be something the fearful found comforting and the bold found contemptible. The latter had little interest in god or the devil, and the former wanted salvation from the darkness that tempted and teased.

It had not been a specific request from Alonsus, but if Adamant couldn't help spread his friend’s good word with the power he now held, what use was it?

Alonsus would occupy a mirrored position to Nielas, the power of the Light and divine might being set opposed to arcane knowledge, despite the fact the two men were good friends, and often shared opinions.

Adamant had been informed that it would prevent the throne room from looking lopsided, which he supposed he had to accept.

The remainder of the room hadn't changed much, which might have been a depressing state of affairs in and of itself. The House Wrynn seats had been repurposed, and another house raised up to nobility after careful examination of the other candidates. Had Sinthara Baewyn not elected to destroy her own house in the aftermath of her husband’s death, it would have been their house that occupied those seats instead of the newly minted House Prestor.

Even the Virigoths had kept their old seats for a few years before their fortunes collapsed and House Von Indi had taken their place.

_ Daval seems like a reasonable man,  _ Adamant mused as he stood, waiting.  _ A good ally, too. With any luck, I’ll have a new voice to support me amid all Warren’s old allies. _

Glancing around, Adamant saw only smiling, neutral faces amongst the noble houses, even the Ebonlocke, even the Catharts, the Baewyns’ closest allies. It was impossible to know what they were thinking, though he could guess. They were calculating their personal projects, their objects of interest and ambition, and determining what could still be completed with the new order in place. His own allies would be doing something similar. Darius wanted a knightly order. Alonsus wanted to spread his learning of the Light. Varia’s family, the Relicantes, wanted to press for war against the Gurubashi trolls in the south, near the lands they held in Stranglethorn Vale. Nielas, as innocuous as he tended to be, had an ambition to seize and cap a source of magical power in the Treewind Pass, formed by an ancient meteor strike. Pathonia wanted to expand the new order of assassins to more than one person, a plan that was as dangerous as it was daring.

Adamant didn't resent their ambitions, not really. He supported their goals and intended to help them when he could. After all, wasn't it equally ambitious to want to be king? Wasn't it equally risky to challenge for the throne?

He would need to handle the other noble houses carefully, and curb their worst excesses, but not enough to cause his own downfall. Smiles held knives.  _ The same people who cheer at your coronation will do so at your hanging.  _ It wasn't a truism. It was Azerothian history.

In the centre of the throne room were the guest seats assigned to visiting dignitaries from other nations. Their international allies were limited, as much because of their own instability as because their fellow kingdoms wanted little to do with the relatively young nation. Most of those who had come to watch the change of colours were goblins, opportunists wanting to know where Adamant’s judgement would fall on certain matters. Some rulers favoured the goblins heavily, and alliances with the Tiran thalassocrats had been commonplace, while others had hated the non-humans and drove them down into the teeth of the trolls who lived in Stranglethorn, in the hopes they would be torn apart. For his own part, Adamant remained neutral, waiting to see where the goblins would fall.

With the speed of the coronation, no invitations had gone out to the other human nations. Adamant didn't want them there, and they rarely came to visit. They had dwarven neighbours, and they were distinct with their dark grey skin and burning red eyes, speaking quietly to one another in their own language. The elves here were of the noble houses, and their Shano’dorei cousins similarly native. All was to be expected.

What  _ wasn't  _ expected was the small Tiran delegation, wearing marine uniforms and for all the world looking as though they’d wandered into the ceremony by mistake.

Merina Proudmoore was the daughter of Grand Admiral Amelia Proudmoore, the second youngest of her five children, and the last of her daughters. Of the five, only two had embraced their familial naval superiority, and the other was Merina’s only brother, young Daelin. She had much of her mother in her -- blunt and bold, just careless enough to start fights and dangerous enough to finish them -- and she was said to have lovers in every port.

Adamant was content with just two people that shared his bed and his heart, but all luck to her keeping them sorted.

As the daughter of a monarch -- or at least the equivalent of one -- she had every right to demand a place in the throne room to witness this event. The right, perhaps, but so rarely the interest.

_ I wonder what she's interested in,  _ Adamant mused.  _ Why did she come here? What does the old Sea Wolf want? _

Nothing seemed amiss about the woman, no troubled thoughts crossing her expression. She had one arm around a woman who was wearing a dress with a neckline a fraction too low, enough so that when Merina gestured with that hand, her fingertip brushed the top of the woman's breast. A little brazen perhaps, but not a danger.

Adamant looked over the throne room one final time, before turning his attention to the sergeant-at-arms. The man was of medium height and build, clad in a dark, military blue, and bore a burnished gold mace at one hip. His name was Keivan, and he was the final authority for seeing Adamant crowned. It was dangerous to rely on the old church for support. Zealotry and malice was dangerous to rely on, and the old demiurges had possessed both. Since there was no one noble house that ruled Azeroth, there was no point in any of them having a specific ritual for the process. Only the military was enduring and reliable enough to see this through, monarch after monarch, for nearly six hundred years.

Adamant nodded to the man and took his place in front of the throne, clad in the royal blue he’d chosen as his primary colour, and he was unarmoured. His ribs ached a little, but only a little.

Varia stood waiting for him, resplendent in gold, the bright colour contrasting with the dark of her skin, and she held Llane in her arms, holding her son up so he could see the crowd. Like Adamant, she was unarmoured, but never unarmed. She had the pieces of a crossbow secreted on her person, and she could have tucked Llane onto a throne seat and been dangerous in moments.

Darius, on the other hand, was armed and armoured, huge and glittering in silver plate, and carried a shield bearing the symbol of his house, a red dragon rampant on a green shield. He wore no helm, but his sons were carrying it on a cushion, while his lady wife was tended by his younger sister in the Fordragon section of the noble houses.

Nielas and Alonsus wore robes and were seated at their new places in the throne room. The former had his son seated with him, Medivh almost lost in his new formal robes as he sat and fussed on the bench. Adamant smiled at the sight, then at Nielas, Varia and his son, Darius and his children, before settling on Alonsus. His friend nodded towards Keivan, and Adamant smiled.

“I believe we are ready to begin,” the sergeant-at-arms said. “If you are, sire.”

“I am,” Adamant confirmed.

Keivan nodded to him, and raised his voice, calling out for silence. “Lords, Ladies, and all noble brethren. May I direct your attention to the throne.”

The noise settled and the attention fell to Adamant. He raised his hand, acknowledging the crowd. “People of Azeroth! My name is Adamant Wrynn, son of Bastion, grandson of Delorne. By right of strength of arm and superiority of wit, I claim the throne of Azeroth!”

The assembled nobles cheered, but Adamant wasn’t heartened by it. The truism held for a reason, after all.

Keivan nodded. “By the strength of your enthusiasm, let King Adamant Wrynn the First be recognized! Bear witness as I take his vows.”

_ The fact that  every monarch of Azeroth must make the same vows, and yet no one ever seems to honour them has not escaped me, and I wonder how many others it  _ has  _ escaped,  _ Adamant mused, though he knelt, bowing his head with humility.

On the edges of his periphery, something flickered, something dark.

“Do you, Adamant Wrynn, swear to lead the people of Azeroth justly and fairly? Do you swear to protect her against her enemies, and stand strong in the face of adversity? Do you swear to wear the crown with humility and wisdom?”

“I do,” Adamant said. “I so swear. I ask that you recognize my wife, and the future Queen-Consort, Varia Relicante Wrynn. She will share rulership with me and guide me in all things.”

Another cheer went up, a little more pointed and loud from Varia’s House, and she stepped forward. Were Adamant not her husband already, he would have been stricken by her beauty, and enamoured by the flow of her skirts. Adamant watched as she knelt, Llane kept cradled close, done so artfully that the infant didn’t even stir in her arms.

Keivan turned to Varia, and she bowed her head as Adamant did. “Do you, Varia Relicante Wrynn, swear to support your King in all things? Do you swear to act with courage and honour? Do you swear to wear your crown with kindness and wisdom?”

“I do,” Varia said. “I so swear. Adamant and I ask that you recognize Llane Wrynn as our trueborn son and heir to the throne. He cannot make any vows, but we will speak for him.”

“We recognize Llane Wrynn,” Keivan said, his solemn face breaking into a smile. “Do you, Adamant and Varia Wrynn, acknowledge him as your true Heir, and swear to raise him in your image? Do you swear to shape him into the next King of Azeroth?”

“We do,” Adamant and Varia said as one. “We so swear.”

“In the name of Azeroth, I crown you King Adamant and Queen Varia Wrynn. Long may your House reign,” Keivan said, and placed a crown on Adamant’s dark blond curls. Varia’s crown was smaller, daintier, and Pathonia and Varia had discussed the different ways that one could use it to kill a man.

Between the two of them, they’d come up with about seven.

Llane did not have a crown that would fit him, being so young, and instead, Keivan brought out a vial of anointing oil. As he opened it, Adamant caught another dark flicker.

_ If there's an assassin, Path will find them,  _ he thought with confidence.  _ There is nothing to fear. _

“I anoint you, Crown Prince Llane Wrynn,” the sergeant-at-arms said, and Llane peered up at him. “May you grow up strong.”

The infant’s face screwed up into something not unlike a smile, and Adamant suspected his son had soiled his diaper.

“Rise, monarchs, and greet your people!” Keivan cried, and carefully, the three rose. The assembled nobles cheered, and the guests clapped politely. Merina Proudmoore offered the royal couple an admiring look and a saucy wink when she noticed Adamant’s gaze.

“We thank you,” Adamant called out. “We will lead and we will serve, but we cannot do so alone. We ask the court and council recognize several advisors to the throne. They stand before you now.”

One by one, Adamant's friends, allies, and beloved ones were sworn in, starting with Alonsus, ready to be recognized as the High Bishop of the fledgling Church of the Light. Each vow fell along the same lines, asking devotion and service. This time, Adamant was the one who took their vows, speaking on behalf of Azeroth and the Council of Nobles.

Later, Adamant would take Pathonia’s vows in private, with Darius and Varia as witnesses. The first royal assassin to serve House Wrynn.

As Nielas Aran rose to give his vows, Adamant caught sight of Medivh staring up at the high Keep ceiling, and frowned. Boredom, he could understand. The boy was young, and Darius’ sons were getting restless too. It was only natural for his attention to wane. Medivh, however, looked focused on something distant.

_ I wonder what he sees,  _ Adamant wondered before turning to Nielas. “Nielas Aran. Do you--”

“Look!” Medivh cried out, standing up and pointing.

Adamant followed the boy’s finger, and watched as shadows pooled in the centre of the throne room, only a few feet away from Keivan and Adamant. He watched as the darkness coalesced into a figure wrapped in a hooded black robe. It was not a large figure -- about level with Adamant's nose, and an inch above Nielas’ head. The robes did much to conceal the figure’s shape, and the folds flapped in the unseen wind.

Nielas’ mouth opened and closed, silent and stunned.

“Greetings, Monarch of Azeroth,” the figure said, and Adamant was surprised to hear a woman's voice from the depths of the hood. “I am Aegwynn of Tirisfal, and you are appointing someone to my seat.”

_ “You  _ are the court conjurer?” Adamant asked, surprised. “But you have never been seen. When were you appointed?”

“Longer ago than most of your noble houses have existed,” Aegwynn said plainly. “By your first king.”

Adamant's eyes widened at the implication. Azeroth had been founded some five hundred and eighty-three years before today, and not even the elves lived that long.

“Where were you?” Nielas demanded. “Where were you when Warren Baewyn was tearing Redridge and Westfall apart? Where were you when Azeroth needed you? When I--”

“Don't embarrass yourself with sentiment,” Aegwynn snapped back, her voice a whipcrack. “It doesn't suit you  _ or  _ the situation. I came here for a reason, since I wasn't invited to the coronation.”

“You aren't  _ welcome  _ at the coronation,” Nielas hissed, and Adamant was surprised at his tone. “Go back to the rock you crawled out from under.”

“That's hardly polite,” Aegwynn said lightly. “Though I’m not here for you.”

Nielas swelled with anger, and Adamant spoke up. “I require a court conjurer capable of serving the throne, not someone who disappears for centuries at a time. What do you have to offer me?”

Aegwynn seemed to stare at him, and reached up to pull her hood back. Adamant wasn't sure what he expected, but the mage looked young, only a little older than himself, but in an ageless way. She had no lines around her green eyes and mouth, no white to mar her auburn hair. She smiled at him thinly.

“I have no interest in a court position,” she began. “I was granted the position out of gratitude for my part in keeping the  _ Storm’s Wind  _ whole. I accepted out of curiosity more than anything else. I don't care much for… politics.” She made a face, and Adamant thought he heard Merina Proudmoore laugh. “I returned to court to bring the new king a gift.”

“A gift,” Adamant repeated. “I am grateful for your support. Since you have offered it so publicly, I will accept it now.”

“Good,” Aegwynn whispered, something in her voice sending a shiver along his spine. “Good.”

Aegwynn reached into her sleeve and drew out an object the size of her hand. It appeared to be an hourglass, though with mages, one could never be quite sure. Certainly, Adamant could see that it was fashioned out of bronze and glass, and the sand within it was oddly dark, the grains fine. She held it out to Adamant and he examined it, turning it over in his hands. It seemed unmarked. Out of habit, he turned it over, but oddly, the grains didn’t seem to move.

“Is it broken?” he asked, confused.

“No,” Aegwynn said. “It’s enchanted. It counts down to a specific event. An event you likely don’t wish to see any time soon.”

“...and what event would that be?” Adamant asked. She smiled cooly.

“The destruction of Stormwind,” Aegwynn said, and Adamant bit back a curse. “With this hourglass, you will be able to monitor to see exactly when doom will come to your kingdom. Perhaps you can even avoid it.”

“Did you come all this way to ill-wish us, you insane witch?” Nielas demanded, and Aegwynn’s returning smile was full of teeth.

“Not at all. I simply thought a little knowledge might go a long way.” She spread her hands, and loomed like a lengthening shadow. “If you’re as clever as you always pretended, perhaps you’ll even find a way to prevent the sands from falling entirely. After all, you’re the Court Conjurer, aren’t you?”

Nielas’ lips twisted, and his eyes blazed anger.

“I will keep this in mind,” Adamant said, forestalling further argument. He could see the rest of the nobles watching with morbid fascination. “Thank you for your… gift. I will make use of it as best I can.”

“Of course you will,” Aegwynn replied. “Feel free to continue your little ceremony. I do not care to stay.”

With that, the ancient mage exploded into darkness, and a swarm of bats circled the court once, shrieking and crying out before flying purposefully out the great doors of the throne room and disappearing.

“Who the hell was  _ that?”  _ Varia demanded a few moments later, sounding shaken, even as Adamant watched the sands.

“Magna Aegwynn of Tirisfal,” Nielas said, and with the source of his anger gone, the energy seemed to drain out of him. “Guardian of Azeroth, and to my everlasting regret, the mother of my son.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Darius began slowly, releasing his white-knuckled grip on his sword. “But how did you stand her long enough for that?”

“She’s remarkably charismatic when she cares to be,” Nielas replied. “Adamant, get rid of that thing. It’s nothing but a way to make you fearful and uncertain. The remnant of an old order.”

“I don’t know,” Adamant said, considering. “Might be an interesting decorative piece for the mantel. Because I certainly don’t intend to live to see the fall of Stormwind.” He glanced over at Medivh, wondering if the boy was distressed about the direction that the conversation had taken, and saw that the boy hadn’t heard anything at all.

Instead, he was staring off towards the horizon, in the direction his mother had flown.  
  
  



End file.
